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Num Pang

Today, dear readers, I beckon you down the rabbit hole into a Cambodian world of gluttonous pleasure. That’s right, I’m talkin about Num Pang on E. 12th Street in New York.

I’d heard loud whispers about this little crevice of a sandwich stand for several months before I finally made the good decision to carve out time and try it. Then one Saturday, I woke up and said to myself, TODAY’S THE DAY FOR ME AND THIS SANDWICH. I last minute texted a few friends to see if anyone else wanted to dive into Cambodian legend alongside me, but nobody took the bait. A lone and curious soldier, I walked the 15 minutes from my apartment over to Union Square.


Sweet little Num Pang. Don’t blink cuz you could miss it and then your life will be ruined forever.

The menu included an array of exotic sounding options like Pulled Duroc Pork, Peppercorn Catfish, Ginger Barbeque Brisket, Grilled Khmer Sausage, Portobello, and several other equally compelling choices. I asked if there’s a crowd favorite and was directed towards the naturally I went with the Five-Spice Glazed Pork Belly instead cuz I’m a G. My cashier then pointed to the “Cash Only” sign and gave me a 7% annoyed “ATM’s across the street” as she looked to the eager customer behind me. AHH, thwarted again! But I pressed on. Once I returned with fresh bills, I finally was able to get a Pork Belly sandwich into my grubby little meat hooks.



What followed was a big bundle of joy full of sweet crispy pork belly, cucumber, pickled carrots, cilantro, and spicy chili mayo smothered on fresh house made bread. A perfect melange of wildly opposing flavors and textures meeting in one sickly magical moment of communion. Who could have predicted that something like this existed in the world (except for the legions of loyal fans)?!?!? As I sat there on a park bench, alone, in pure disbelief at the sensuous pleasure of each bite, I thought about how this moment of celestial beauty could be a check mark in the case for a higher power.

While the extra chili mayo dripped into the styrofoam container on my lap, I also contemplated about how unfair I’d been to mayo throughout my life. I realized I’d been socialized into thinking that mayo was an abomination on earth and I’d accepted this idea without even venturing to know it on any sort of intimate level. I’d unknowingly been a mayo racist and now the whole world was being illuminated and cracked open for me in a joyous hedonistic sauce. Amidst the shame of my ignorance and weight on my conscience, I felt a tidal wave of love for this new crack dressing, and forgiveness radiated.

Picture 2

Picture 3

…And then I became a creepy Num Pang social media participator…also, the author notes that she went a third day following these two consecutive days but was too embarrassed to compose another sycophantic public tweet about it (after all, she is single again).

Num Pang, oh my God. Go now. Don’t walk, run there. You will thank me later cuz your first bite is gonna make you feel as though you are only now being born and have never existed before this moment.

SoulCycle Trick

Okay, this is the scene. It was a 32 degree Thursday morning with formidable windchill. I awoke in my East Village bed, a warm womb of denial to start the day. My alarm sang abrasively, demanding like a naggy ex-wife that I get up and move my ass. Never having been a work-out-before-work type, I hadn’t exercised at this hour since the yesteryear of college athletics where my successful arrival at early morning practice was attributed solely to the threat of punishment by death (ie: running stadiums or game suspension). And that’s when I remembered that today was the day of me against the bike, but mostly just me against the morning in general.


Selfie I took from bed

I managed to blindly shuffle along the streets of New York city until I made it to the SoulCycle studio in NoHo, gingerly led along by my valiant leader roommate. Armed with her disciplined can-do attitude, she paid no mind to my cantankerous protestations. I signed in and after noticing the “New Rider” marking next to my name,  I was greeted with a: “Welcome, Blair. We’re really glad you’re here today.” I smiled even though it sounded like the greeting people get when they first check into rehab for narcotics. It was a nice touch though, I felt welcomed and shit. And then after overcoming the acute claustrophobia of the miniscule winding locker room hallway, I arrived at my bike – my foil, my stallion.

Clad in my stupidest dryfit apparel and batman velcro spin shoes, I was ready to see what all the god blessed hype was about. Why Jake Gyllenhall never misses a class, why even Aviva, real housewife without a leg, partakes. The room was dark and I felt the same eerie sense of anticipation that is present before the headlining act of a concert comes on. People were jazzed all around me. At 6:45 in the morning. What is wrong with these people? I thought.

Our instructor arrived with one minute to spare, assuring us all that she always starts precisely on time. She introduced herself as Stevie. A diminutive little hobbit of a person, she had the preternatually lean and sinewy muscle of a feline cat indigenous to the wild plains of Africa. There was no evidence of even the smallest bit of fat on her body. We’re talking size 0 in a sports bra and micro spandex shorts with more energy than a Four Loko. In addition to the full tattoo sleeves encompassing her arms, she had a massive pony tail of dreadlocks and eyes the color of mint Listerine. It seemed as though she was probably friends with Michelle Rodriguez. What an interesting person, I thought. Stevie quickly lit candles around the now packed room and we started peddling.

The music came on and blared 25 times louder than any other gym class I had been to ever. I started to loosen up and remember that I was a dedicated athlete at some point in my life. This morning shit isn’t so bad, I thought, I’m like almost partying kinda. Stevie yelled like a rockstar on stage from her front and center platform. She was a spiritual artist and it seemed that with each passing scream she gave away a part of her soul to us. I wondered if she was a sobered up former raver as I struggled along with each song (you’re supposed to peddle to the beat).  I chased the music through the entire ride. Going after the intangible could be frustrating but it was also liberating, like a midnight skinny dip in the ocean. And then we did choreographed little tiny dance movements on the bikes and Stevie jerked her dreadlocked head back and forth like a possessed mad woman – everyone looking to her like the hero goddess of the morning. She was a savant of energy, a defiance of normal human limits. We even did a ten minute arm sequence with one pound weights while peddling, an activity that left my arms paralyzed for the next four days. For our cool down ride, she ended with some Etta James in the darkness. It was ethereal in the candlelight and felt a little sacred like a little chapel oasis.


See, I was telling the truth about the candles


Needless to say, I get it now. SoulCycle is that good, everything they said was all true. It will get you from the inside to the out, from the toes to the nose. But it’s also for the richest people in America at $35 a class. Basically, I can never go back until I am rich and famous. So, thanks, SoulCycle, I love you and see you never.

Have you tried SoulCycle? What do you think?


Valentine’s Day

Hey, you. Yeah, you. Listen up.

Valentine’s Day is cool. So don’t go around saying dumb shit like “Happy Single Awareness Day” or any other stupid adages. There’s love everywhere, swirling around you and rubbing up against your super moisturized winter skin. It’s a festive day and nobody likes a buzzkill bummer whiner weiner. Your mom loves you, why else would she text you all the time? Your dad loves you, why else would would he send you all those chain emails. Your girlfriends laugh at your jokes and still like you when you’re hungry and cranky. Your guy friends haven’t lost respect for your keg stand metrics. And those lecherous construction guys on Houston really love you every morning and night on your way to and from the subway entrance…


So please do not despair and/or hate on such a day of pure, unobstructable beauty. With that, we humbly offer you the following suggestions for the big V day.

Should Nots (Missed Layups/Dropped Passes/Butterfingers):

The following Don’t list will be in red typing as to signal “don’t!!” to your brain.

-Brand New- De Ja Entendu. The whole album (along with dark rooms and consuming entire pizzas) is irrefutably off-limits. V-day contraband. No way, don’t do it. 


-Before Sunrise, Before SunsetGenerally no Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy as an across the board rule for today.

-The Notebook- You tell me when I’m being an arrogant son of a bitch and I tell you when you’re a pain in the ass, which you are 99% of the time. I’m not afraid to hurt your feelings. You have like a two second recovery rate and then you’re on to doing the next pain in the ass thing. So it’s not going to be easy, it’s going to be really hard. We’re going to have to work at this everyday, but I want to do that. Because I want you, all of you. Forever, you and me, everyday.  Yeah exactly, V-day suicide. Who wants a shot?

-Love Actually- You’re not going to marry someone you’ve never had a conversation with anyway. 

-Young Adult

-When Harry Met Sally- But you should definitely have some pie still. At a diner if you want. Maybe with Billy Crystal. 

-AdeleGod, no, definitely no Adele today.

-Colbie Caillet- Save it for a summer day with beergaritas. 

-Any and all Frank Ocean- No way, man. Seeing him win at the Grammy’s was hard enough. Like -Yeah! suck it, Chris Brown. But oh no! The emotions that accompany our R & B darling! He’s a picture of sweetness and romance. 

Musiq Soulchild, Talking Heads, Solange, Bon Iver- Again, these are maj prohibited. House music will suit you better today. NO WORDS, JUST BEATS. 

-New weird slow Rihanna ballads that express her torturedness and thus are way too evocative for the holiday

-Talking to weird people and/or V-day predators. Be on guard, but also sweet, okay? It’s a combination that you must figure out in order to navigate the rest of your time here on earth, like the philosopher’s stone or something.

Shoulds (Slam Dunk!):

-Wear pink and red. It’s friendly as shit. Unless, you have something black and dead sexy to wear. But it can’t be like curmudgeonly black.

-Go to Soul Cycle. We’re trying it this morning so that we can fathom why people won’t shut up about it. Endorphins, bitchesssss.

-If you have time today, maybe during your commute to work, or if you can listen to headphones at the office – check out this week’s This American Life podcast with Ira Glass. It’s a Valentine’s Day ep, but surprisingly not lovey dovey.

-Eat the Crumbs and Baked by Melissa cupcakes at the office. It’s Valentine’s Day, carbs and processed sugars should abound.


-Smile and hug everyone. Pat their backs and rub people’s shoulders. Hold the elevator open. High five people. Let your handshakes linger…

-Hit the bar with your girlfriends and have some dranks. See below:

Oopsies, keep it together girls.

Wishing you a very special day for you and yours.  Follow the lists. Look around and see dat da world be dope as shit.

Lastly, don’t forget that tomorrow is Friday and all that drugstore shit will be on sale and meaningless. Like this too shall pass, ya know?

Dump His Ass Ri Ri

Rih Baby,

Look, we saw you and your side-of-the-head-buzz-cut at the courthouse with Breezy, supporting him at his probation hearing and blah blah.

A litigious matter of whose Grammy night origins we haven’t forgotten. By now you’ve made it very clear that you don’t give a fuh, ie: your Instagram moniker, “BadGirlRiRI” and your daily selfies of you lighting a fatty J. We get it, you’re not Pon De Replay girl any more – you’re no role model. I’ve noticed you taking this stance in some of your most recent song titles like “Good Girl Gone Bad”, “S & M”, and for sure “Rude Boy”.


For the record, we abhor it when people give us unsolicited love advice, like it makes us want to assault their houses with a paintball gun and pour salt on snails. But this isn’t about us, so lets get some things straight- You’re a firing Barbadian siren hit factory with the ethereal ability to make even a curmudgeon like 2013 Chevy Chase dance…You got a body that make a girl wanna sin…You’re churning out product like IBM in the 90’s, you can’t be stopped (thanks by the way for “Take Care” and “We Found Love” this past year, two ubiquitous melodies on the soundtrack of my last relationship – now I have to tase myself seven times a night at the club).

But I digress, what I’m saying is – you’re putting some good shit out there in the universe. You need to dump his excitable ass. 2013 can be like Girls’ Year for us!!! We can go hang out with Katy Perry, prob go to some weird clubs in Midtown and Meatpacking like you like to do. Nevermind, Katy is in love now, soldier down. It can be just us two. We can talk about how “Disturbia” is undisputedly your best song and I’ll knife anyone that says differently. Ya know?

And then ideally, we’ll find ourselves a couple of Dwight Shrutes I think. It’s essential that you step outside of your typical box and/or “type”. Maybe Manu Ginobili? No, he’s married. How about Paul Ryan? No, he’s also married. You two would also maj fight over your Instagram choices. Anyways, I think your next boyfriend should dislike MMA, fighting, punching Frank Ocean, yelling at talk show hosts, etc. But that’s just little old me, your friend speaking.

So, write back when you’ve pulled the rip cord.

Girls: It’s a Shame About Ray

Yes, we came home from the bar early on Saturday night to catch Girls.



+5 for sticking up for Marnie after tearing her a new one last week while on her coke binge. Geeze louise, ease up, Hannah.

+5 for a respectable Oasis rendition.

+5 for no gross Laird mishaps this episode

-5 “There are certain people who are meant to remain in your past. I made a mistake trying to repurpose you”. What are you a totalitarian despot? “Repurpose”? NOOOOOO, not our Elijah. HOW COULD YOU, HANNAH?


+5 for starting an artisanal mustard company.

+5 for calling Marnie out. You’re a f**king stepford psycho and I’m tired of seeing you around everyone. Whoa, pint-size-headband-girl’s got game.


-10 for LYING: “I’m seeing someone”. She isn’t seeing anything. She’s seeing terror-artist-boy damage her vulnerable soul.

+7 for exquisite passive aggressive Audrey dig. Hannah: What have we ever done that’s so great?, Marnie: Nothing that great. Nothing with condiments. AND, Marnie: Are her mustards not receiving enough accolades?


+5 “Fern? That’s a ridiculous name.”

-5 for throwing the HUMI award. That’s some Kanye behavior.

+25,000 for Peter’s Poison for predicting the marital implosion last week. Come on, Jessa, you knew shit was going to go down when you’re Janis Joplin trying to marry yourself straight into a finance-y straightjacket.



-5 get smarter. Come on, you’re dating a 33-year-old.

+25 for the best scene of the episode. And the series. I love love.


+25 for the best scene of the episode. And the series. I love love.

It’s the weightiest and most poignant scene of the series thus far. Saying I-love-you for the first time is the best. It’s so scary and charged. Exquisite work by Alex Karpovsky and Zosia Mamet.

What’d you think about this episode, dear readers? Let us know in the comment section below!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We Love Girls

We love Girls. You know this already because we blabbed all about it last week here.

This past Sunday’s episode, “Bad Friend”, was a little bananas. I, for one, did not foresee Hannah being the type to hit the nose candy – heyo, curveball. Totes thought she’d be too straight-laced/pious to take that plunge. But, who knew? Editor “Jame” (not Jamie) said to, so she literally did it for the story. And out of it we got the sweaty mesh tank top dance scene between her and Elijah set to the best song ever (below).

How’s that jam? Makes you want to SHAKE IT EVERYWHERE. Like everywhere. I don’t care, I love it.


-5 for that illegal mesh tank top. No club would ever allow it. No friend would allow it either. This isn’t Ibiza, it’s Brooklyn. It’s not cocaine-induced expressionism, it’s assault on my eyes, and an infraction that would land real life people in the pen.

+5 for her Marnie tell-off rant. It was fun and true and weird.

-5,000 for LAIRD, ew. Ew.


-5 because umm, nobody in the world would react the way Hannah did if your creepy-junkie-downstairs-neighbor started stalking you. Even if you had asked him for a favor earlier that day. No, you’d mase a bitch.

-1,1000 for preying on the chubby 25-year-old girl looking for drugs so that she can write a $200 freelance article.


+10 for just having all around incredible charisma and screen presence. Such a great character addition. I’m giddy during any scene in which he is present.

-10 for letting Hannah wear that illegal tragedy of a mesh tank top.

Booth Jonathan


+10 for unheard of levels of cockiness. I’ve been harboring high hopes for Booth based upon his introductory scene with Marnie from last season. I won’t remind you of what he said exactly because my mom and dad read this and they’d send me a howler. But, dear readers, I was PSYCHED when he and Marnie inevitably met again…and impressed that he instantly lured her away from her brand new job with just a few lethally casual words.

+10, Jorma Taccone

-10 for that AWFUL sex scene. God, I pictured it going down so differently. Way to make it not hot at all, deranged-artist-Booth. You were supposed to just stay at cocky-artist-Booth.


-10 for that awful sex scene. Marnie was a lifeless slug without a soul letting some skinny robot man inhabit her. I can stand my share of spice, but Jesus Marnie, where’s your fighting spirit? Or even your words? Your personality? Your exaltations? Your protests. Perhaps this will be the catalytic moment for a new arc about her emotional evolution or some shit like that. Or maybe she will end up dumping his brazen hipster ass. Either way, we need something else to happen.

-10 for her “You are so f-ing talented” response to him locking her in his torture TV installation. Get your head out of your ass, Marnie.


+10 for the imminent unraveling that will befall Jessa’s supposed union to Thomas John. We all know it’s coming. Jessa’s obnoxious proclamations about domestic nirvana are just a setup for the implosion.

…Can’t wait for Sunday. They better not try and pull any shit because of Super Bowl or anything like that. Do you think Hannah will actually make Elijah move out? Noooo, I hope not.

So It’s Cold and You Got the Flu

So it’s cold and you got the flu. Gross. It’s single digits out and you’re helpless like a newborn babe. Oh no, oh no. WRONG. Here’s the silver linings playbook. Glass half full, bitches.


-Good. Remember when you were throwing back all of those nog and brandy’s over Christmas break with reckless abandon? Now you won’t have to even try to shed that holiday fat suit. A diet of soup and orange cuties are unzipping that thing right off for you. Devoid of effort.

-Good. Now you can watch the entirety of Freaks and Geaks without being INTERRUPTED BY ANY INTRUDERS. Outsiders should be fearful enough of your contagions to stay away from your cave of sickness and leave you to young Jason Segel in peace.


-Good. Now you don’t have to shave your legs. Yes, you need those legs covered up in fleece, working to make your bod chill the F out on the body aches and fever. Nobody’s coming near those legs. Grow that hair out so far that people allergic to human hair will sneeze until they die.

-Good. Now you can abuse Seamless without feeling bad about it. Just a magic button, and poof! soup is at your door. Sorry that it’s 0 degrees with wind chill out there, delivery man. Thanks for the grub, though!


-Good. Now you can wear your Uggs without the tidal wave of shame and guilt that you usually feel when you even think about wearing them. Your feet need those ghastly contraptions for purely pragmatic reasons. Wear them as if the Mayans were right and enjoy a clear conscience.


XXL tragedies from College

-Good. Now you can wear those giant fleece sweatpants that you got from the athletics department in college. Nobody can see you, they won’t know. They won’t see you looking like King Kong in your bed. Feel free, be free, this your time for the XXL fleece. Torn up from the floor up.

May your glass be full and your electrolytes plentiful.

What do you like to do when you get ambushed by the flu and a blizzard?

Robert Redford and Paris Hilton at Sundance

Robert Redford and Paris Hilton at Sundance. What anomalous event could have possibly transpired in order for these two persons of society to land in the same sentence? As you may have heard, Robert Redford told everyone that Sundance isn’t fun any more because people like Paris Hilton show up and “leverage their own interests”. He allegedly even asked everyone at the press conference to join him in a pact to ignore her. Hahahaha, awesome.

First off, we love an older gentleman with the cajones to speak his mind. Second, maybe he will ban Paris and then she won’t be able to get any more free bags of those awful white sunglasses she wears.


Robert Redford is our friend.

“She doesn’t have anything to do with the films. My question is, ‘What movie is she in?”

Excellent query, Rob. It’s called The Simple Life, bro.

Next, we imagine some of the things Paris was probably overheard saying in Park City:


“Umm, did you hear James Franco is in like a gay movie here?”

“Wait, who’s Robert Redford?”

“Can you imagine the size of Kim’s ass when she hits 6 months?”

“I love house music!”

“I mean I just don’t think the Kimye baby is going to be that cute”

“Can I get some adderall in my redbull vod?”

“You might know me from the major motion picture, House of Wax”

“I love these pink sparkle Uggs”

“No, you can’t kick us out! I know River looks like he’s 12, but he’s actually 21”


This has been an edition of  “Imagine what Paris Hilton Said”. 

Megan Fox in Esquire Magazine

It’s MLK day so of course we need to talk about Megan Fox in Esquire Magazine.


This article is a lot of fun for all as there is a truck load of crazy going on. In addition to Megan Fox jumping through hoops to sound as looney tunes as possible, we also have sycophantic writer, Stephen Marche, in the mix.

Let’s start with Marche. He compares Fox to an Aztec sacrifice, a thing so beautiful that the world has impulses to destroy it. AND SHE AGREES WITH HIM.

“Deep in her house, Megan Fox and I are discussing human sacrifice. I tell her about an Aztec ritual practiced five hundred years ago in ancient Mexico during the feast of Toxcatl, when the Aztecs picked a perfect youth to live among them as a god. He was a paragon, beautiful and fit and healthy, with ideal proportions…

“The sacrifice’s year was filled with constant delight, I tell her. He danced through the streets adorned in luxurious clothes given to him by the master, decked in flowers and incense, playing magical flutes that brought prosperity to the whole world. He had eight servants and four virgins to attend to his every need and could wander wherever he pleased. But at the end of the year, when the feast of Toxcatl came around again, the perfect youth had to smash his flutes and climb the stairs of the great temple, where the priests would cut out his heart and offer it, still beating, to the sun.

“Megan Fox is not an ancient Aztec. She’s a screen saver on a teenage boy’s laptop, a middle-aged lawyer’s shower fantasy, a sexual prop used to sell movies and jeans.

‘It’s so similar. It totally is,’ she says quietly.

At the end of the year, the beautiful youth had to go up by himself. He had to go up willingly. That was part of the deal.

Now she is shaking her head. “Not everyone understands that that’s the deal,” she says.

Megan Fox will not go willingly to have her heart cut out.”

Okay, bro, let’s tone it down about 7,000 notches. I think your austere historical references might be a touch heavy handed. But, the absolute most awesome part is that she unabashedly agrees with him. “Yes, Stephen, I’m too beautiful. I am exactly like an Aztec sacrifice.” 


And just a few Megan gems for you to sink your teeth into:

Megsies on her ability to speak in tongues.

“The energy is so intense in the room that you feel like anything can happen,” she said. “I have seen magical, crazy things happen. I’ve seen people be healed. Even now, in the church I go to, during Praise and Worship, I could feel that I was maybe getting ready to speak in tongues, and I’d have to shut it off because I don’t know what that church would do if I started screaming out in tongues in the back.”

Meggy on her preference to confrontations with fictional monsters over a trip to the cinema.

 “Would you not be so much more interested in finding out that Big Foot existed than in watching a really good movie? I believe in aliens…Loch Ness monster—there’s something to it…There’s the Bell Witch…What distracts me from my reality is Big Foot. They are my celebrities.”

This article is just a great time all around.

Hey, Megan, you should go have a soda with Suzanne Somers.



What To Do After a Breakup

So, you severed that shit. You’re mom’s calling to see if you’re okay and you’re having bogus “coffee dates” with people you haven’t talked to in a year. Here’s what to do after a breakup.

1. In any period of tumult, it is essential that one maintain perspective. Mentally tattoo this in your brain: At-least-you’re-not-Lindsay-Lohan. Suddenly the world erupts with all sorts of shit to be grateful for and the air smells of fragrant opiate wildflowers.


2. Have some self respectThe Carrie Diaries is NOT on the Peter’s Hate Watch approved list. Watching Carrie’s early scarring is not going to buoy you to the untouchable state that you’re on your way to now. Besides, do you think that little pre-pubescent’s nose has anywhere near the character of the original gangster, SJP’s? No, it doesn’t, get out AnnaSophia.

3. Eat sushi. Why? Because it’s full of weird nutrients and mineral properties that give you freaky good skin and heart health or whatever. And if you don’t order the crunchy roll or baked scallops then you’re going to be riding the low cal train to skinny jeans nirvana. Every breakup should be followed by a state of irreproachable ketosis. Ummmm why do you think Kim K. exclusively orders the tuna sashimi in every one of her post breakup sushi restaurant scenes with Jonathan Cheban?

4. Wear black. Not because you’re mourning, but because you are suddenly a ferocious force of a tycoon who has been re-released into the wild in order to do with this planet what you will. Black is simple, keeps shit looking tight, and has just the right amount of F you.


5. Banish all Top 40 music from your music playing sources. You don’t need to listen to the 20 out of 40 songs that you and your ex-dude designated as “your songs”. This is an essential part of taking over the world and becoming like super alternative and cultured from subsequent exploration of new music. Also, Frank Ocean and Colbie Caillet are banned for obvious reasons.

6. Freak your friends out by showing creepy, unbridled emotion. Nobody knows what to do during this seriously awk time frame. They are not used to you being a blubbering guppy and haven’t a clue how to navigate the situation. You have no idea what to do either, the nakedness, the bewildering absence of your always pervasive verbal domination. You get like a few weeks or something and then its time to grab your balls and get awesome again. You’re not going to meet your Bill Hader by being a hum drum bummer, COME ON.

7. Move your ass. You should go to the gym and produce the natural chemicals that all of the new world’s drug culture is artificially producing for ravers. If you don’t feel like sweating, go for long walks and listen to podcasts on your iPhone so you get like even smarter and more interesting.

We’d like to thank Lindsay Lohan for the inspiration and also wish to send her a “Hey, keep your head up, good game out there” ass slap.